With My Anxiety, I Live Life Like a Heist Movie

I'm a fan of heist movies. It's not the diamonds or vault contents I covet. I'm in awe of the genre's planning, execution and aftermath.

My admiration is natural because I live my life like a heist movie. I confess to a level of anxiety not abated by medication or deep breaths. My personal method of managing the condition mimics this favored motif. If I can plot out all customary steps, I figure I can handle unexpected stumbles.

Now you may employ my heist tactics for something as significant as an out-of-town trip. That's certainly understandable. Alas, this 84-year-old shifts into heist mode for the most mundane of errands.

Let's take a simple task like going to the grocery store. Perhaps, spur of the moment, you decide the fridge requires replenishment. Off you go. I chuckle at your lack of preparation.

My excursion begins with a calendar entry for the perfect day and time of the operation. Not a busy weekend. Not an after-work rush. I aim for the store's opening at 8 a.m.

Tension mounts as I hover over my list. In every heist movie, timing is key. When is the optimum time the target treasure will be unguarded? But in my scenario, it's more like "on what day will my iceberg lettuce need replacement?"

Like my antihero who has preserved every detail for the heist on various notebooks, for my grocery trip, I record the optimum date on both electronic and paper calendars.

Then there is the shopping list which nestles near the fridge. When a door opening reveals a dearth, the list's accomplice — a pen — is ready to leap into action.

Every heist movie has a getaway car. In many productions, the driver panics and drives away, leaving the crew carless. I have a gentleman I count on for 7:45 a.m. pickup, in time for the store's opening.

But if he fails to set an alarm or takes longer than the afforded 30 minutes to return to the store, the whole job is off the rails.

A plot point that endears us to every crew member is when they reveal their fantasies about what they will do with their portion of the prize. One envisions a peaceful life on a remote island. Another designs a palatial home for parents that raised him when little. And for a third, it's a life-saving operation for an ill child. These dreams, which veterans of the genre know will never be fulfilled, encourages audiences to vote for the villains.

My less colorful fancy is simply a few spoonfuls of Okie Dokie Non-Dairy Ice Cream before it's lodged in its freezer home.

When planning my grocery trip, I picture it from start to end. I bring an empty cart to the lobby of my building. Its assignment is to stand empty and ready for my return. If another tenant, or some miscreant, swipes it by mistake or intent, the mission is threatened. I must rely on the attention and loyalty of the young woman at the desk. "I'm leaving this here," I say. Her nod will suffice.

Once in the grocery store, before approaching check-out, I retrieve the master list from my backpack. With the pad's pen pal, I draw a line across each purchased item. The clock is ticking, but I passed the vegetables without grabbing radishes. Is there time to return to aisle one? The car will be waiting in the no parking zone. Fast thinking, an advantage gleaned from heists, shifts to skipping the root.

The vacant tote bags I assign for the job will be filled upon completion of the task. Not only stuffed, but too heavy for this petite, aged shopper to lift from the store's cart. My driver must be up for his task. His role; to lift, place in the trunk, and upon return to my building, retrieve bags from the trunk, and shove them into the hopefully unmolested waiting shopping cart.

On the morning of my own successful heist, as I wheel the filled cart back to my apartment, I check my watch. Forty-five minutes from start to finish. Perfect. The early hour of my excursion guaranteed there would be a minimum of shoppers. First in as the doors opened to a fresh crew. Unfrazzled by throngs throughout the day, these Hawaiian shirt-outfitted personnel were eager to identify an aisle, or better yet, reach to a top shelf and retrieve for me a desired product.

My precise planning and execution, modeled after my beloved heist movies, afforded me a coup. I have avoided the fates of my on-screen criminals. I am not incarcerated, or as several, dead — instead I have survived to enjoy my loot. No medication or deep breaths needed.